déjeuner du matin
by mellieforyellie
Summary: "And me, I took my head in my hands and I cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really. — discontinued.
1. il a mis le café dans la tasse

**disclaimer: nu-uhhh.  
>request: imperfect relationship.<br>notes1: yup, i filled the same request twice. i love it.  
><span>summary:<span> "And me, I took my head in my hands and I cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.  
><span>pairing:<span> franceengland.**

* * *

><p>Chapter One:<br>(_he put coffee in his cup_)

* * *

><p>I woke up to the smell of coffee.<p>

For a moment, I was positive his mother was making it, but as I felt around behind me, I found nothing but empty sheets. I sigh as I sit up and run a hand through my bedhead. It's probably terrible but there's no mirror nearby, so I can't find myself to care.

I glance over at the alarm clock as I stand up and stretch. _11:39_, just around time for lunch, I think hopefully as I walk into the living room/kitchen.

_He's_ the one making coffee, and I stare at him in disgust as I sit down at the kitchen island.

"Couldn't you have put some goddamn clothes on? What if your mother walked in right now?"

He waves me off with a twinkle in his sky blue eyes. "_Mon amour_, my mother birthed and raised me. I think she's seen me naked once or twice. _Nous ne sommes pas timides à ce sujet_."

"Oh?" I question, unable to stop my eyes from drifting downwards as he turns away from me. God, does he have a great ass. "And what will she think about you being naked in front of _me_?"

He shrugged and grinned at me. " 'Boys will be boys.' "

He handed me a cup of coffee and I glared into the dark liquid. "Can I make tea?"

"_Je n'ai pas tout._"

I cursed lowly. As I slowly stirred my coffee with a spoon, I drawled out a question. "Why coffee?"

"Wine does not sit well with me in the morning," he said simply.

"Well, it's nearly noon."

"Nearly. Still morning."

"Touché."

There is a short silence as he sips his coffee, before scrunching his nose.

"Why take it black?" I ask.

He looks into his cup with as much disgust as I had, before taking both cups and dumping both in the sink, He leaned on the countertop for a long moment, staring as the liquid slowly drained down the sink.

"_Je ne sais pas_," he said, at last. He leaned over the counter and kisses me, a long, sensual kiss. There was a soft sound accompanying a satisfied sigh as we broke apart, and he leaned in to trace my jaw.

"Why don't we go back to bed for a bit?" he murmured across my neck, and his breath was hot and dizzying.

"Yeah," I mumbled, feeling a hot blush spreading across my face, "that sounds like it'd be nice."


	2. il a mis le lait dans la tasse de café

**disclaimer: uh-uh.  
><span>dedication:<span> Pandora radio. tl;dr.  
><span>notes1:<span> just for the record, this is based off a poem by Jacques Prévert.  
><span>notes2:<span> hargen blargen.  
><span>summary:<span> "And me, I took my head in my hands and I cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.  
><span>pairing:<span> franceengland.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 2:<span>

(_he put milk in his cup of coffee_)

* * *

><p>I don't know what I'm doing here (<em>again<em>), but that's no surprise. Yet again, I'm staring to the side at his stupid red door, with his stupid vase full of roses on his dresser, and I can't help but think about how _girly_ that is.

I must've been _really_ drunk last night, I realize, because I don't even have any boxers on, and I usually remember to at _least_ put those back on. But, judging from the carelessly strewn bottles of scotch and wine on the floor, we were completely hammered. I wince as I stand up and crack my back, and I feel the backlash sting of a night that involved too much friction and not enough lube.

Check the time. _12:18_. When did I get to be such a late sleeper?

I pull my boxers and a T-shirt on as I walk out into his kitchen. He's making coffee again, and I raise an eyebrow at him as I sit down none too comfortably on the bar stool.

"Coffee? Again?"

He nods listlessly as he pours some milk into his cup. It's the same from last time, I notice, with a chip on the handle and smiley face drawn in permanent marker. "It's better this time," he defends, curling a piece of his already too-curly hair around his finger idly.

"It still tastes horrid anyhow, and you know it."

He swishes a sip around in his mouth, before spitting it in the sink, as if he were at a wine tasting. He makes a disgruntled type of face before staring into his slightly lighter cup of coffee.

He looks up at me from his cup before tilting his head. "Why don't you like coffee?"

"Too bitter."

"And tea isn't?" he questions with a smirk.

"Tea is more natural," I insist.

"Tea may have leaves, but coffee has beans. You can't deny that, _non_?"

"True," I say, shrugging my shoulders, "but when you drink coffee without food, you feel sick to your stomach and it makes you feel sick. Tea does not have the same effect."`

He shrugs and dumps his cup down the sink. "Really, I'm not quite sure why I keep making it, either."

"You're having a fit of delusion, perhaps?" I offer with a playful smile, and he smiles back at me, before kissing my neck.

"_Mon chere_," he murmurs to me, "I think the only delusion I'm having is _you_ in front of me, _not naked_."

"Well," I say, standing up to back into the hallway, "that could easily be fixed."


	3. il a mis le sucre dans le café au lait

**disclaimer: nopenopenope.  
><span>dedication:<span> hundred percent in French class that lets me do whatever the hell i want in that class.  
><span>notes1:<span> i know it seems repetitive so far…it's all for plot purposes, trust me. this will be the last repetitive chapter.  
><span>notes2:<span> and for you francophones, i _know_ the translations aren't perfect. i'm doing what flows better.  
><span>notes3:<span> i've been listening to too much Kate Nash. i'm imagining Arthur with a thick London accent. you all should, too.  
><span>summary:<span> "And me, I took my head in my hands and cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.  
><span>pairing:<span> franceengland.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 3:<span>  
>(<em>he put sugar in his milk coffee<em>)

* * *

><p>Why is it that every time I wake up here, I wonder why? When will I learn to just <em>stop<em> coming back?

I mean, it's not like there's anything alluring of this place. No, not by far.

It's just a small apartment down the street from school, where he lives with his mom. It's the same place, always, just a tiny kitchen and a tiny living room separated by a small counter. Two bedrooms, one for her and one for him, not like _she's_ ever home, though. (Which, really, is a good thing — I would be too embarrassed to ever come back if she heard him fucking my brains out at night.) And, lately, it's had that _godawful_ smell of coffee.

Speaking of, he's making it. _Again_.

"We have a very odd pattern now, did you notice that?" I say as I stroll into the kitchen and sit on the same stool as I have the past two times I've been here. He's using the same cup, and stares at me questionably.

"We do?"

"I — or both of us — get drunk or lonely, come over here, we fuck, I wake up in the morning to that _horrid_ smell, we argue about coffee for a little, and fuck some more."

He sips his coffee for a moment, pondering this idea. He slowly grins as he reaches up to grab the sugar.

"You, _mon amour_, are very, very correct."

He tries kissing me, with the stench of coffee heavy in his breath and I push him away. "A: We haven't even argued yet, and B: Wash your mouth out and I might consider it."

He frowns and slumps his shoulders. I can hear the "But, _mon amour_…" on his lips, and shake my head before he can even start. He harrumphs and simply continues to stir his coffee. It's becoming progressively lighter and he sips it again. He looks pleasantly surprised.

"You know, it's not all too bad this way. _C'est bien_."

I scoff. "I'll still hate it. Always."

But then, he knows that already. He laughs as he takes another sip and dumps the coffee down the sink. He takes a wine bottle out of the cabinet and takes a swig of it, swishing it around in his mouth before finally swallowing it. He sets the wine bottle on the island before leaning over and running a hand through my hair.

"Is that better?" he breathes huskily into the skin of my neck, making me shiver.

"You still have wine breath," I whisper, almost unable to speak, and he chuckles again my neck. "But, then I'm used to that."

I wonder why I allow myself to be.


	4. avec la petite cullier il a tourné

**disclaimer: no owney.  
><span>dedication:<span> French class. i have to memorize this poem. writing a fic to it helps tremendously.  
><span>notes1:<span> finally starting to get deeper into the plotline! 8D  
><span>notes2:<span> this is the fastest updates i have given to any non-one-shot i have ever written. ever.  
><span>notes3:<span> be happy.  
><span>notes4:<span> if anyone has ever seen the Edith Pilaf movie, that's what i imagine Francis' mom to look like.  
><span>summary:<span> "And me, I took my head in my hands and cried." It was a difficult relationship, really.  
><span>pairing:<span> franceengland.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 4:<span>  
>(<em>with a small spoon, he turned<em>)

* * *

><p>This time when I wake up, I'm in my own bed, staring at my boring white ceiling and my boring generic fan. I didn't wake up to the smell of coffee, but rather to the sound of my parents fighting.<p>

I turn over on my side as I hear a shriek and a crash.

"'S your fault he's a fagg't, y'know!" my father slurs. He's already had enough rum to be this drunk this early in the day? Damn.

"But it's your fault he's a drunk!" my mother shrills back, before the sound of a heavy smack resounds throughout the flat.

Really, you'd think she'd know by now either to shut her mouth or to leave him. She's too feisty for her own good. I mean, don't get me wrong, I respect my mum (certainly more than my father) but she's not the smartest kid of the block.

Honestly, though, I'm surprised they figured out I was gay. What made them realize? The lack of a hidden stash of porn magazines? Or maybe it was the lack of girls brought home and the surplus of men I visit. Or, perhaps, it was the shameless and drunkenly loud phone sex?

It's not like I care whether or not they know, albeit I would have preferred they didn't. They're not exactly the most accepting people in the world. I mean, they had a fit when my brother's exchange family was gay, and immediately pulled him out of the program. They have a bigger fit when he decided to stay with them and told them "They're better parents than you are!"

I sigh. I could really use some tea right now. Or maybe a cigarette. But I would have to either go out to the kitchen or go to Francis' or both, and that would mean passing by the scene in the living room, and I would prefer not to get my ass beaten.

I think about calling him, but then that would alert my parents of my existence. I decided to text him instead, and frown at the time that flashes on the screen.

_12:56_. Okay, so still a little early for Dad to be drunk, but much more plausible.

[Parent's are fighting. Again.]

His reply is short and fast. And in French.

[_Pourquoi?_]

Sometimes, I wonder why he lives in London — why his mother moved them to London. They would be so much happier in Paris, or maybe Nice or perhaps Versailles.

[Well, Dad's drunk. And I think they figured out I'm gay. Dad's blaming Mum, and she's fighting back.]

Are there more prostitution jobs here or something? Moreover, how does one figure out where the prostitution is better? I don't see why they don't move to Netherlands. They don't have a famous prostitute murderer in Netherlands history, after all.

[It took them long enough. Really, you don't try to hide it much, _mon cher_.]

Then again, I guess I don't want them to leave. I don't want _him_ to leave, despite how much I pretend to dislike him. I hate that part of myself — the fake part, the part that denies everything I know about myself. I'm pretty sure that's why I've become a slight of an alcoholic.

[Hey, I tried! …A little.]

His mom is pretty alright, too, I suppose. Despite the fact that her body has been so abused — by drugs, by sex, by make-up, by countless hours of physical labor, by not enough sleep, ever and it's almost sad to look at her, and I'm honestly surprised she still gets business. She's a crude woman, but a funny woman.

[Pff. _En peu_, is the keyword. _Est-ce ta maman va bien_?]

He's way too good for me, really. He cares so much, makes it known to me oh, so often, and I can't even tell him a simple thing like "I love you."

[I'm not sure. I don't think it's any worse than usual.]

I don't spend time with him at school, at all, even — I don't even act like we know each other, much less than we're having sex. At school, I'm such a different person, and I hate it almost as much as I hate my home situation. At school, I'm a prefect and everyone thinks I'm a stuffy know-it-all prude. Sometimes, I try to wonder what they would think about my closet full of Sex Pistol T-shirts and bottles of blue and red and green hair dye that are just waiting to be used.

[Oh, well, that's good. Well, not good, _mais_…Better than the alternative.]

As I read this, I hear a crash and the sound of shattering glass. Mum is sobbing, in her soft little gasps, and I curse in my head. I reply to him quickly, before throwing my phone on my bed and walking out to the living room.

[Oh, nevermind. Heard glass breaking. If I don't reply in half past, call the police.]

Probably not the best text to leave him with, but oh, well. I'll deal with the consequences later.

My mum was crying, holding her hands to her chest and blood dripping into the carpet. Her favorite vase was shattered on the floor in front of her, and Dad was precariously holding an almost-empty rum bottle.

"Back off, Dad!" I yelled at him as I took Mum's hand in mine, carefully taking out the pieces of glass in her hands. She whimpered slightly as I did so and I softly shushed her in the most comforting tone I could manage.

"Don't y' tell me what to do!" he slurred at me, and I rolled my eyes at him. "Ya don't have an o-pi-ni-on, y'know?"

"Really?" I asked him sarcastically, standing up to get Mum a washcloth. "Last time I checked all people did. What makes mine so worthless?"

"Yer a _fag_got."

Dad was so ridiculous. I had such a low tolerance for stupid people, and he just got twenty times worse when he was drunk. He might as well be a circus clown — looked like a complete buffoon, wasn't funny in the slightest, and scared small children.

"Just because I prefer the presence of men better than women in a sexual environment doesn't mean I'm not a human being."

Confuse him with big words, that's always the best way to get him. Mom chuckled under her breath, and I tried my best to hide my grin.

"G't out!" he yelled at me, stomping closer to us. "G't out!"

I shrugged as I stood up and walked back to my room. I pulled out my trunk from under my bed and started throwing things in — essentials, mostly. Dad was still screaming at me as I did so. I could hear (and smell) the rum bottle shattering on the wall next to me.

"Would you like me to go, or stay?" I snidely question as Dad blocks my doorway. He harrumphs and I easily shove him out of the way as he continues to scream obscenities at me out the hallway and flat. I slam the door in his face and laugh to myself as I travel down the stairwell to the ground floor.

Mr. Wang, the landlord, passed me with a confused and slightly concerned look on his face. "I get complaints from your neighbors — are there problems?"

"Dad's drunk," I say without regret. I might have lied if he hadn't of kicked me out. Maybe. "Also, you should call the police. Probably. Just a suggestion."


	5. il a bu le café au lait

**disclaimer: let's not go over this again.  
><span>dedication:<span> uhm…i don't know. how am i writing this much? i'm confused.  
><span>notes1:<span> long chapters, ohhai you guise.  
><span>notes2:<span> surprisingly, "genius next door" by regina spektor is really good to write.  
><span>summary:<span> "And me, I took my head in my hands and cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.  
><span>pairing:<span> franceengland.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 5:<span>  
>(<em>he drank the milk coffee<em>)

* * *

><p>When did I get to be so suave? I wonder as I wait for the bus. The November air is rather chill around me, and as I look to the skies above me, I wonder about the slight chance of snow. Or rain. I wouldn't prefer either, but it would probably only complete this already terrible day.<p>

I text him as soon as I get on the bus, and somehow, I notice, it's only been about fifteen minutes. The woman I sit next to looks at me oddly, with my heavy traveling trunk that I squeeze under the seat.

[I'm fine. But he won't be.]

Again, he's so fast to reply.

[_Oh, Dieu merci, tu es bien_. What do you mean by that?]

He worries too much. Normal people would call it overbearing, but I like to think it means he cares. He's always asking me how I'm feeling, if I'm fine, if I'm comfortable.

[Well, I ran into our landlord on my way out the building. Told him to call the police.]

He's also very sweet, despite how perverted he is and how much he makes fun of my eyebrows. He always tells me how pretty he thinks my eyes are, and he's never once judged my closet full of shirts I would never wear otherwise. It makes me remember the time he'd told me to put a ripped up Rolling Stones tee on, and fucked me senseless wearing only that.

[On your way out?]

I think I only call it "fucking" because "making love," sounds so cliché and girly, despite the fact that's what it is. He whispers how much he loves me in my ear the whole time, murmuring occasionally in French, and sometimes he's simply unintelligible. I always feel so guilty, because for some reason I'm not sure of, I'm unable to him how much I love him.

[Yeah. I kind of packed a trunk and left.]

I've tried to tell him before. I've tried to tell him _so many times_. I've tried to tell him laying in his bed, with sweat all over us and his face nuzzled in my neck. I've tried to tell him in the beginning, with hushed kisses in my bedroom, with my unknowing parents just outside the door. I've tried to tell him at school, in our quick rendezvous' in storage closets and abandoned classrooms.

[_Oú_?]

I can't even look at him in school on a regular basis. When we first started dating, I used to feel so guilty because he would smile at me in the hallway, and all I could do was blush and look forward, as if I had never seen him in the first place. His friends always tease me when they see me, although I don't think even they know we're together.

[Where do you think?]

I get off the bus, and when I knock on the door, the phone is still in his hands, the text I had just sent lit up on the screen. I drop the trunk on the floor inside his flat and collapse into his arms.

I can't believe I'm crying. I can't, really. I've always been so used to a drunken father, to a shitty home situation, and I really can't believe I'm crying over something I've anticipated for years. But still, he holds me and doesn't question it, just strokes my hair and pulls me close to him.

Finally, I stop crying, but I don't dare look up at him, just start laughing nervously and wiping myself.

"I'm pretty pathetic, huh?"

He shakes his head and pulls my chin up to look at him. He has such pretty blue eyes, and I always think that every time I look at his face.

"You're not pathetic, _mon cher_. You're human. Would you like anything? Tea, perhaps?"

Even though he's been lying to me for the past week about not having any tea, I shake my head and pull him down to kiss me.

"Just let me forget everything," I tell him, and he smiles as he kisses my temple.

"I can do that."


	6. et il a reposé la tasse

**disclaimer: nope.  
><span>dedication:<span> uh, shitty days.  
><span>notes1:<span> totally watched this depressing episode of Grey's Anatomy before this.  
><span>notes2:<span> helped set the mood, y'know.  
><span>notes3:<span> so i had this done yesterday. ff wouldn't let me put it up for some reason.  
><span>summary:<span> "And me, I put my head in my heads and cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.  
><span>pairing:<span> franceengland.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 6:<span>  
>(<em>and he set down the cup<em>)

* * *

><p>Sometimes, I wonder about how he ever thought that I was worth anything. I think about that in moments like now, where the only thing I can hear is the soft sound of his breathing, of my breathing.<p>

No, I'm not worth anything. I'm whiny and I disappoint everyone. I cry like a little bitch and I take and take and never attempt to give back. How is it that I can find these flaws in myself, but still be completely unable to do anything about it?

I love remembering our times together, I think as he mumbles in his sleep. He shifts a little, pulling me closer to him, and I squeeze his hand that's wrapped around my hips a little tighter.

I remember our first date. We had gone to this ridiculously cheesy Italian restaurant. He told me that we had only went there for the discount (apparently the kid Antonio's in love with has a brother and his brother is alright and their grandfather owns that restaurant and the brother convinced him to give us a fifty-percent discount), but it was still one of the greatest days that I think I can remember. We ate greasy, fatty, but authentic Italian pasta, with garlic bread smothered with cheese, and it was one of the most delicious things I'd ever tasted.

I remember the first time he told me he liked me. We had got paired for a science project — our only class together, actually — and to finish it, he had to have come over. I was getting frustrated over molecular theory, with a pencil in my mouth and a frown on my face, and he chuckled, looked at me under his pretty blonde lashes, and told me, "_Tu es mignon._ I like it." I had blushed and snapped at him in a very undignified way, and before I knew it he was kissing me and I liked it.

He's always been there for me. I've always talked to him about my parents fighting, about scholarships and about my insecurities. He's never once told me about how he feels about his mother's occupation, about the father he's not quite sure about, or about the little brother he knows he has somewhere. I always feel the urge to ask him, sometimes, when he has that quizzical look on his face, like he's seriously thinking about something, but I never do. I always think, "Oh, it's fine, I'll feel rude if I ask."

Maybe I should have.

He murmurs something to my ear, and it's just slightly intelligible, and just for a second, I think he's awake.

Before I can stop myself, the words "I love you" whisper breathlessly out of my mouth. I'm so happy — finally, finally, I've told him, oh God, he knows now, yes, yes —

He breathes softly, warm and with the hint of a sounding wheeze. His chest rises steadily, and his hand slacks on my hips.

He's asleep.

I purse my lips and try not to cry too loud.


	7. sans me parler

**disclaimer: oh, nope.  
><span>dedication:<span> bipolar weeks.  
><span>notes1:<span> i love writing a chapter every day. really, i do.  
><span>notes2:<span> it makes me feel accomplished.  
><span>notes3:<span> i feel like i had some problems with this chapter. if anyone has any critique plot-wise on how this chapter worked out, please let me know?  
><span>summary:<span> "And me, I put my head in my hands and I cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.  
><span>pairing:<span> franceengland.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 7:<span>  
>(<em>without speaking to me<em>)

* * *

><p>It's Monday morning, and I'm really, really tired. I wake up to the sound of a blaring alarm clock. I have to turn over to his side to shut it off, and I realize he's not in bed. He must have already gotten up.<p>

It's _6:00_. I groan.

When I walk out, him and his mother are speaking quietly, in French that's so heavily accented and so fast I can't understand a slight of what they're saying. Even though they see me, they don't stop talking. I lay my head down on the counter, and wait him to hand me something, anything — coffee, tea, I don't ever care at this point.

"_Bonjour_," his mother grumbles to me in her gravelly voice. It's always interesting to hear her speak French — so curt, so quick, so natural. I mean, he may also be natively French, but he at least slows down for my benefit — and partially because I think he's a drawler, but I digress.

"Um, hello," I murmur. "Good morning."

"_Regarde à moi_," she says suddenly, and by instinct, I look at her immediately.

She looks especially trashy today, with red lipsticks smudged a little on her teeth and mascara clumps in her eyelashes. Her hair is frizzy and thin, and it almost seems like she has balding spots on her scalp. Sometimes, I wonder how she created such a beauty like Francis.

"I don't mind you here at all," she tells me, sipping some coffee, "_parce-que je sais la famille et le drama qu'ils apportent._"

"Of course," I respond, "thank you so, so much — "

"Just shut it. I don't care for '_merci_'s. My only rules: Don't do anything that would get us kicked out, don't go into my room, and if a strange man comes to the door looking for me, _never_ tell him where I am."

I nodded with fervor. "I can do that."

"_Bon_," she says simply, washing out her now empty cup in the sink. "We're clear then."

"Your mum's kind of alright," I say as soon as I hear her door 'click' shut. He laughs and shrugs.

"_Je suppose_."

He hands me a cup of tea and I smile at him, and kiss him. We both still have morning breath but I can't seem to care, and neither can he. He sighs against my lips and tucks my head under his chin.

"We should hurry for school," he says, but still makes no motion to release me.

"Oh, right," I say, pouting. "That."

He chuckles and brushes my hair away from my forehead, before he kisses me one more time. He nudges me with his elbow, before walking off to his room to get dressed. I sip my tea as I walk into his bedroom — well, _our_ bedroom now, I suppose — and set it down on the nightstand to get dressed.

I frown as I open up my trunk. All my school clothes are wrinkled, especially my tie. I think I look ridiculous as I look at myself in the mirror, and as he stands next to me and wraps his arms around my waist, kissing my ear, I realize his are equally as wrinkled.

"How can you stand that?"

"_Quoi_?"

"Wrinkled clothes."

He just laughs and shoos me out the room so I finish my tea before it gets cold.

The bus ride to school is somewhat awkward, somewhat peaceful. We don't speak much, just quietly hold hands in the privacy of our seat. We're comfortable, but I don't the silence — for some reason, it seems tense. When we arrive at school, he shakes off my hand and continues to walk faster.

Gilbert and Antonio, Idiot 1 and 2 greet him with mischievous grins as he steps off the bus. They eye me and elbow him with a grin.

"Hey, hey, what's Prude Boy doing on your bus?"

And just when I expect him to smile and relay everything, he just chuckles and shakes his head. "Nothing like that, guys. He just must've been late or something."

…What? He isn't even going to acknowledge my existence now? Even to his best friends? Before, we used to at least have small glances, and flashed smiles.

He doesn't look at me the rest of the day. He never responded to my text about a quick make-out session during lunch. He doesn't even look at the note I pass him in Chemistry.

We sit in the same bus aisle, and this time the silence is deafening. We don't touch, at all, and neither of us make a move to talk to one another, to touch one another.

When we get home, I drop my bookbag in the doorway and look at him. He raises an eyebrow at me, and I can feel the cold attitude in just his stare.

"What was _that_?" I demand.

"What was _what_?" he snaps back at me, tossing his bag carelessly on the floor. Its times like this when I hate that he's taller than me.

"That — _thing_, you know, where you didn't look at me all day, where you didn't even acknowledge my existence!"

"I thought you didn't want anyone to know," he whispers, without looking at me. He has his hand placed awkwardly on his shoulder, playing with the pleat of the jacket there.

My mouth drops open, and I'm utterly speechless. Am I really that much of an arsehole?

"…I…"

He shakes his head, almost without any movement at all, and walks off to the kitchen. He takes out the wine bottle and pours himself a glass, swishing the rich, thick red liquid around.

"It doesn't matter," he says, without looking at me. His voice cracks, and he bites his lip to keep from saying anything more.

"Yes, it does," I say, after a long a silence. His head turns sharply toward me, an almost invisible eyebrow raised. "Yes, it does," I repeat once more. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I — I don't want to have to hide anything anymore."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" he asks softly, never taking his eyes off mine.

"I want people to know you're my boyfriend, I want to be proud of it. I want to know your friends — well, I don't want to _know_ them, because quite frankly they're annoying but — "

He chuckles and reaches to pull me close. His embrace is almost constricting, and I can't breathe because my head's pulled too tightly to his chest, but I don't care, because _God_, this feels so right. He kisses me, and I can feel his happiness, his joy, his love.

"_Je t'aime_," he whispers breathlessly against my lips. He opens his eyes to look at me, and although I open my mouth, nothing can come out. The words choke themselves in my throat, my eyes start to water, and my stomachs knots itself over and over again. His smile is sad, and his hands slide off my cheeks with defeat.

I try to speak, but he just shakes his head, staring at the floor.

"I'll be back later."

I slide down to the floor as the door 'clicks' shut, and stare at the door. I can hear every step he takes down the hallway, down the stairs, his heavy and quick steps sounding especially loud on the concrete flooring.

"I love you, too," I whisper to an empty flat.


	8. il a allumé une cigarette

**disclaimer: nopers.  
><span>dedication:<span> algebra, to which i have given up on learning.  
><span>notes1:<span> so i had my memorization test on the poem this is based off today.  
><span>notes2:<span> i knew all of it. like a boss.  
><span>summary:<span> "And me, I took my head in my hands and cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.  
><span>pairing:<span> franceengland.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 8:<span>  
>(<em>he lit a cigarette<em>)

* * *

><p>I'm laying on his couch, in his living room, in his flat, feeling sorry for myself. I couldn't stop thinking of how much of an <em>idiot<em> I am.

"_Dis_." I jump at the sudden noise, and open my eyes to see his mum at the sliding door that leads out to the balcony. "Come out here with me."

I'm really confused, but I get up anyway. We sit in cheap lawn chair, shivering in the nighttime cold, and as she lights up a cigarette, she holds the pack out to me.

I sigh graciously as I take one, and I mumble with it in my mouth. "I really hate to take one, but…"

She shrugs as she hands me a lighter, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Everyone needs a pick-me-up now and then."

As I light up the cigarette and inhale, I feel a wave of calm wash over me. I sigh out happily, smoke blowing out with it. We sit in silence for a few moments, savoring the lungs full of smoke.

"He talks about you a lot, you know," she says suddenly. She's not looking at me, though — she's still staring off at the London lights, at the bright, full moon in the sky.

"Does he?" I say offhandedly, more focused on the feeling of tobacco in my system.

"_Ouais_," she murmurs. "He tells me a lot, you know, despite the fact that you think he might not, what with my job and all. _Nous sommes vraiment proches_."

Oh God. She knows. She must know. Is she going to talk about it? Oh God, it'll be so awkward, this is so awkward — why is this happening? I'm so unbelievably nervous, but all I can do is exhale a breath of smoke and say,

"Oh."

"_Mon garcon_," she drawls, exhaling a bit of smoke, "_il est trés sensible_. He gets hurt very easy. He needs to be told he's loved, otherwise he'll think otherwise. He'll get doubts. He's like his father that way, _tu sais_."

My mind is going frantic, and all she does is suck on the fag and continue speaking.

"I had the same problem as you, though. It's why his father left. I couldn't tell him I love him — how could I, when I was still working the streets, when I was sleeping with other men to make a decent living? When I told him I was pregnant with Francis, he told me, '_Dites-moi tu m'aime,_' he said. 'Tell me you'll quit your job, that you'll come with me. _Je veux entendre ton amour_.' I couldn't. He left. I still haven't told Francis that I know who _son père_ is."

"Why tell me all of this?" I ask her, staring at the silhouette of her profile.

She turns to look at me, and a motherly look flashes across her face in the form of a sad smile, and she pats my cheek.

"You've got a chance with him," she whispers to me, as if it's a secret. "He loves you. A lot. And I can tell you do, too. Don't ruin your chances. _Ne fais pas mon erreur_, _ouais_?"

I'm blushing as I take an inhale of smoke. "I don't know why I can't tell him, thought I love him — I love him _so much_. I can never seem to tell it to his face."

"That's something you gotta figure out for yourself, lad." With that, she put out the butt in the ashtray, got up and went inside. She pauses for a moment, inside the flat but still outside. "Call me Élise from now on." She doesn't shut the door all the way.

I sat there for a while, burning cigarette in my hand, staring at the moon. I snuffed the small stub of the fag out in the ashtray and stand up to lean on the iron railing.

I try not to think about him as I stare into the scenery of London, and although this isn't the best place to see its allure, it still takes my breath away. It may be smoggy and rainy all the damn time, but at night I think it's simply beautiful. Sure, I can't really see the stars, but who needs stars when you have the brilliance of age-old buildings around you? The heart of Paris is nothing compared to this.

Well, there goes trying to not think about him.

Then again, when _can't _I think about him? He's everything to me. He's my life. He's my soft place to fall. He's the only thing I dream about, he's the only thing I can count on in my life.

"I'm such an _idiot_," I say to myself, my voice cracking. I can't cry, _please_ me, don't _cry_. "Why can't I tell him? I love him _so much_ — "

I hear a gasp and my heart stops for a split second. I can't breathe as I turn around. Yes, it's him — of course it is, and he's right outside the not-quite closed door. He drops his bag and rushes forward to pull me close.

The outside of his jacket is quite freezing and it gives my skin goosebumps, but I can't find it in me to care. I'm shaking, and I'm not sure if it's from the cold or the sudden relief.

_He knows. He knows_. I can't help but chant that in my head over and over.

Our embrace is tight, but as we pull back, I can't read the emotions on his face, despite that he's such an open book — there are too many for me to see, all switching with each other in an unorganized pattern. But, anyhow, I smile at him with everything I can muster, and he gives me one, single kiss that tells me everything is okay.


	9. il a fait des ronds avec la fumé

**disclaimer: don't own.  
><span>dedication:<span> errr…not paying attention in class because of so many ideas. 8D  
><span>notes1:<span> there was a reason for the wait…i got over bronchitis after about a month! and then i got sick again OTL  
><span>notes2:<span> i've also been listening to nico chorus sing the classical version of "servant of evil"…FOREVER SOBBING.  
><span>notes3:<span> and, lastly, enjoy the happy while it lasts. next chapter won't be.  
><span>summary:<span> "And me, I put my head in my hands and cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.  
><span>pairing:<span> franceengland.**

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Chapter 9:  
>(<em>he blew rings with the smoke<em>)

* * *

><p>"<em>Mon amour<em>," he was whispering in my ear, kissing along my neck, rubbing along my stomach. He was so warm, with soft skin pressed up against my bare back, and the feeling of his lingering fingers was giving me this tingly feeling. "Time to get up."

"If you keep doing that, I'll never get up," I mumbled in a daze, trying to nuzzle my way closer to him. He chuckled and kissed me, and it felt like everything it the world was right.

And then he pulled away.

I pout up at him, and finally opening my eyes, even though I had to squint in the brightness.

"You must get ready, _cher_," he says, getting out of bed. I sigh and follow him to the washroom, extremely discouraged by the cold air of the barely-heated flat. We took turns washing our face, and decided that showers could be had later, as we would most likely (most _definitely_) get distracted.

I frown as I put on my uniform. It's wrinkled, _again_. He begins talking as I attempt to straighten out my tie.

"Would you like to spend lunch with Antonio, Gilbert and I?" he asks.

"There's going to be a lot of jokes on behalf of me, aren't there?"

"Most likely."

I bite the inside of my cheek as I turn around and hug him, my arms encircling his waist. It's really not fair that he's so tall and lean, really. "Yeah, sure, why not."

He turns around and smiles at me, and I'm so overjoyed that for once _I_ can make _him_ happy. He kisses me again, and I love these kinds of kisses — where there's no underlying hint of later sex, where I can feel all his emotions, — happiness, love, content — where everything is just simply and utterly perfect.

Neither of us want to leave this moment, but the duty of schooling calls, and we put on our jackets to go wait at the bus stop. It arrives at the same it does everyday, and the driver greets us with a gruff nod.

We don't sit in silence today, as we hold hands and murmurs of plans that fade into nothingness through the steady roar the bus gives. This time, when we stand up to get off, he doesn't shake my hand of, and I allow myself to form a small smile.

I'm nervous as all hell — I've never done something this drastic before, this _big_ before. But, despite all of this, I'm happy. I'm finally embracing who I am, who I love, and I'm not hiding anything anymore.

Yet again, Antonio and Gilbert are already waiting for him (_us_) with cocky grins.

"I _knew_ there was something up!" Gilbert says, elbowing Francis in the stomach. "How long have and Prude Boy been dating? A week? Please tell me a week, I bet thirteen pounds on it. I also bet that he's a bad kisser, and that he's kind of an arse in bed — "

"I'm _right here_," you know," I say, looking at Gilbert with an eyebrow raised.

All he does is grin like a little shit. "That's five pounds, Antonio! Bad kisser!"

Antonio just scoffs and shakes his head. "Proves _nada_."

Francis just chuckles, and he is obviously much more amused by his friends' antics than I am. He leans in with a scandalous look and says, "He's quite a good kisser, _en réalité_. You wouldn't think it, _non_?"

Antonio grins and opens his hand out to Gilbert. "Five pounds, _amigo_."

All the albino does is pout. "Even better at kissing than the awesome me?"

"_Je suis désolée, mais c'est vrai_." I gaped at him with a disgusted look, and all he did was raise an eyebrow and say, "_Quoi_?"

"You've kissed albino over here with the mouth _I've _been kissing? Fuck, I'm going to get herpes now."

"Hey!—"

"Oh, _mon amour_, don't worry! This happened _long_ before he could've gotten herpes."

"_Excuse me_?"

Antonio shakes his head. "That happened near the beginning of Secondary School, he could've already gotten infected by then."

"_What_?"

"Mm, you're probably right."

"_Um Gottes willen_, I do _not_ have herpes!" Gilbert yells, and he realizes his mistakes as a couple of nearby girls giggle as they pass. His face breaks out into a bright blush that encompasses his entire face.

"I hate you guys," he mumbles, trying to hide his dace in his hands, but we're all laughing like mad. I can't breathe, and I've let go of Francis' hand to clutch at my stomach.

Despite how embarrassed he is, and how much we were laughing, he's over it later, when the bell rings. He's joking along with us, now, as we make our way to our First Period classroom. Well, _my_ First Period classroom. Gilbert and Antonio stand awkwardly next to us, not looking at us, but no necessarily looking away, either. (Personally, I think they're too curious for their own good.)

I blush and he wraps his arms around my waist. He chuckles, and murmurs into my ear, "Embarrassed?"

"Perhaps, just a tad," I reply, because while I could care less, the _looks_ we're getting from most of the student body are not very subtle, and Idiot One and Two over there are staring like creepers.

He chuckles again and kisses me, and it's not possessive at all, like I thought it might be in front of his friends — it's like it always it, gentle and conveying.

"I'll meet you _pour le déjeuner, ne c'est pas_?"

"Up on the roof, right?"

He nods, and smiles at Gilbert's playful complaints ("Aw, we have to see Prude Boy during our _other_ break, too?")

He nods a 'Yes' and kisses me once more before leaving. I'm still blushing as I sit down in my seat, and I'm not sure if it's just paranoia or real, but I feel like everyone's staring at me funny.

I don't pay attention to the lesson today, which usually isn't a normal behavior for me in English. But I can't stop thinking about him, despite the rousing discussion on Shakespearian theories.

The rest of my classes go by quickly, with me not paying attention to any of them. I grab a quick lunch before anyone gets in the line, and head up to the rooftop. The Idiot Trio is already there, laughing at a joke I was too late to hear. He smiles at me as I sit down next to him, leans in, and kisses my neck. I blush furiously, and Antonio and Gilbert lean in for a simultaneous "Aww."

Lunch was spent with a lot of smiles and laughter, and I discovered that Gilbert and Antonio actually weren't so bad. They were funny in a crude sort of way that I didn't exactly mind.

When lunch ended, Gilbert and Antonio took off, saying their next class was "really far," but I suspect that they were just giving us some privacy. But, whether they were lying or not, I'm happy as he traps me between him and the wall of the stairwell and kisses me.

This kiss is hard and passionate, and it makes me feel entirely too hot in some places. All of a sudden, my close feel too restricting; I want to grab at him everywhere, but I settle for threading his hair through my hands and pulling his closer to me.

He breaks away first, breathing heavily. He places his forehead on my neck, sneaking his hands up my shirt to feel at the small of my back.

"You know," he breathes, placing small kisses at my neck, "I've always had a fantasy of snogging you here."

"Well, I think I do now, too," I responded, still quite out of breath, my voice seeming to crack. And despite how comfortable I am, I continue on and say, "We really _should_ get to class."

He sighs and nods, kissing me once more before letting me go. We spend the rest of our time walking down the stairs straightening our clothes and our hair — or, at least, _I_ do, because he seems to not give a damn. We part ways outside the staircase door, and I give him a sheepish grin and continue on.

I meet him back outside school after class is over, and told the Student Council I couldn't attend today's meeting due to "family circumstances".

I could tell he was planning something when he stopped me from pulling the line at our normal spot. When I asked him why, he just shook his head and said, "You'll see."

We stop off at a park — a popular one, really, off on Piccadilly, and it's really kind of cute. It's one of the places with green that I think really fit in London. We find a spot away from most of the other people enjoying the park — kids playing soccer, families enjoying having picnics, and other school kids, like us, enjoying the oddly nice day. We keep out jackets on, because it's still quite chilly, and we use our book bags as pillows as we lay down beside each other.

We point out shapes in the clouds, complain about school, people-watch, and intertwine our fingers as we amuse each other with small talk. I love times like this, when kissing isn't necessary, when I can feel like we're a real couple.

I've always felt like a real relationship was more than kissing and touching (although that's certainly a key component), that it involved understanding one another, of being able to enjoy one another's company without having to be intimate, or even having to talk. And while we certainly had that one down, we could work on understanding each other better.

I, if not both of us, had a bit of a habit of being just a tad intolerant of his feelings. He could real me like an open book, but I seemed to need some prescription glasses.

But despite that we fought constantly, over both little things and big things alike, I wouldn't trade moments like this for anything in the world.


	10. il a mis les cendres dans le cendrier

**disclaimer: nonnnn.  
><span>dedication:<span> uh, sudden burst of inspiration?  
><span>notes1:<span> i feel really shitty that i haven't updated this in forever.  
><span>notes2:<span> …i thought this chapter was going to be back to depressing. uh, be happy?  
><span>summary:<span> "And me, I took my head in my hands, and I cried." It was a difficult relationship. Really.  
><span>pairing:<span> franceengland.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 10:<span>  
>(<em>he put the ashes in the ashtray<em>)

* * *

><p>When we got home after visiting the park, I was kind of glad I didn't have any homework. We went immediately to his room, but we don't sex or even make out. We just…talk.<p>

We're leaning on our sides to face other, the room pitch black except for the light form the kitchen under the door crack.

"Sometimes, I think that she's hiding things from me," he says, playing with my hand that tangled with his.

"How do you figure that?" I ask, even though I know its true.

"I met my brother once, _tu sais_," he responds, and my shocked reaction is enough to keep him going. "Looks a lot like me. Well, _en peu_. Same hair, same tall lankiness. But he has her eyes."

I'm really surprised, because this is something that I would have never even thought of.

"We knew we were brothers, even if he did speak some weird French," he continues. I can tell he's not looking at me anymore, but at something distant memory, deep in his mind. "But we also knew that had been separated for a reason. We started mailing each other, leaning about one another, trying to figure out why our parents split.

"_Il s'appelle Matthieu_. He lives in Canada. We have the same birthday, same names on our birth certificates, and were both born in the same hospital. But his — our, whatever — father is absolutely rich. He lives in an enormous house in the richest district of Québec, and _son père_ is a doctor."

I can't think of anything comforting to say, so all that comes out of my mouth is, "Oh."

"_Mamon_ discovered one of his letters, once. It was the one where we traded birth certificates. She asked who it was from. I told her.

"She went absolutely fucking psycho. She threw things, she hit me, and she told me I was never, under any circumstances, allowed to talk to him again. She threw away all the envelopes, all the letters, everything that ever proved he existed." He pauses, and it sounds strangled. I can tell he's trying to resist crying.

"I just wish she had told me," he whispers, and I lift our intertwined hands to cheek and brush away his tears. "It hurts _so much_, knowing that she lied to me. That she's _still_ lying, and that she doesn't want me to know. The whole reason we moved from France is because of that.

" 'It'll be good for you,' _elle a me dit_. 'New changes.' I knew she was punishing me. I knew London was going to be my own personal hell." He smiles, then, his fingertips ghosting my cheek. "But she was right, anyway, even if she didn't mean to be. I met Gilbert and Antonio — and, most of all, _you_."

I smile at him and lean in to kiss him, gently. He pulls me close to him, and I love how warm he feels.

"_Je ne sais pas qu'est-ce je ferais sans toi_."

"Neither do I," I answer honestly. Really, my life would be miserable without him. I would still be the same old prude who spent all my time with Student Council. I would still be the same little pussy who couldn't ever stand up to my father, who could never break out the hair dye.

"_Je t'aime_," he breathes, his fingers gripping the back of my shirt, and he pulls my chin toward him for a soft kiss.

I smile as I say, "I love you, too."


End file.
